THE DISBROWS

There, in your tower-home, you sit and doze,
Dreaming, perhaps, of Belmar's earlier days -
Of the Shark river in a morning haze
When, in some past spring dawn, you 'woke and rose

From bed and wandered down along its wide
Magic to see a heron or high gulls,
Or possibly, beneath the clopping hulls
Of anchored boats, a school of small fish glide.

Or, maybe thinking back through crimson mists,
You are at Harvard, strolling in the Yard
With friends, discussing the Immortal Bard,
Or Aristophanes - his mighty lists

Of lasting drama - or the great Descartes
As you philosophize with student zeal,
Each of you analyzing what you feel
Concerning Heaven and earth, science and art.

Perhaps your mind goes back to rising swells,
Fresh winds, and, in the dark, the Southern Cross -
The nearer sea a network heaving gloss
From your ship's portholes while the ship's time tells

You are approaching unknown Argentine
(Pronounced, you say, with a hard _G_. Amen!
That is the way that we shall say it, then.)
How high a mountain range for youth to mine!

                       JWS

Jane Lydia Disbrow/Sterner

THE DISBROWS

"And yet they, who are long gone, are in us, as
predisposition, as a burden upon our destiny, as blood
that pulsates, and as gesture that rises up out of the
depths of time."

Jay Willard, Jr. [Sterner]